what_was_left_after_i_burned_my_books DannyH 5/15/24 – Day Five Three crocodiles emptying their mouths of the small birds that flit between their teeth and keep them clean. “Fly away sweet cleaning birds” they think, “now…where can I find some food.” The river flows on down through overhanging trees, their canopy tunnels casting dappled shadows complicated further by ripples on the surface. Howler monkeys shriek through the treetops, the hoofbeats of a herd of migrating bison can be heard in the distance like far-off thunder and under the surface of the water a school of piranhas sweeps stealthily by, snapping their vicious jaws together in anticipation of a kill. I am on a thin canoe, drifting with the flow of the river into denser and darker jungles. Satisfied that the piranhas have passed by my canoe without interest I let a finger cut into the water making a slow lazy V stretching away behind me. Looking back I see that the crocodiles are following at a respectable distance. I am honoured to have them with me, their protection is also of great value to me in my search. My crew consists of two, the other of which is catching an afternoon rest in the front of the canoe while I keep watch at the back. There is no need for rowing or steering, the river knows where we are going and has agreed to carry us as far as it can towards our goal. A river always keeps its promises, even when you no longer want it to. My companion stirs as a cloud of gnats pass over him and agitate his sunburnt ears. He sits up abruptly and looks around as if surprised to be afloat at all. His name is Rufus Conference Twickenham-Double-Double but I call him Native. It is a joke. “How long have I been asleep?” He says, blinking and swatting at the gnats with his left hand. “I’m not sure. We’ve travelled about two miles which would have meant four hours yesterday but I think the river is speeding up, it must be anxious about something.” “Humph.” Says native and strokes his rapidly developing beard, “Any chance of something to eat?” I open the closest of the two large packs we have brought with us. So far in our journey we have hardly had to touch our rations, which consist mainly of salt crackers and dried fish. We have been dining with locals in the river villages we pass on our way. All have been keen to help, indeed Native has expressed the opinion that they are going without food to make sure we are well provided for. We cannot refuse their generosity of course. These are meetings heavy on mutual displays of respect. Their hospitality is not without self-motive, however, word of our mission has spread quickly down the river and is already well ahead of us, smoothing our passage but also potentially ruining any element of surprise we might have when we reach our destination. It can’t be helped, we simply have to put our trust in these strangers as they have had to put their trust in us. I fear greatly for us all. 010621 ... DannyH There were too many hands at the buffet and not enough of Mrs Humbles famous salsa chicken wings. Someone was going to be badly disappointed. Mrs Merriweather the club undersecratary had been performing a deft ballet, butterflying from one conversation to another, seeming to float free as the social whirl took her but always being drawn one conversation at a time towards the long trellace table at the end of the hall. She had timed her run to perfection so as to be talking to the mayor (who was of course bang in the middle of the buffet table from minute one) just as the covers were deftly whipped off by the rather stunning Humbles twins who were earning a little extra pocket money working as waitresses for their mother. Had Mrs Merriweather taken a peek under those covers to ascertain the precise position of the chicken wings? (if so no-one had seen her do it) or was it merely good fortune that landed her right in front of her prey at just the right moment. You could try asking her but you know what she would say, “I must have led a blameless life.” And she would wink and show her teeth, stained red with Mrs Humbles irresistable salsa. 010621 ... DannyH The whole population of the island stood on the beach. Many of them were still waving though the ship had long since gone out of sight. The chief and the medicine man stood farthest inland, waiting for the islanders to turn back towards them. “Do you think they’ll be back?” said the medicine man. “They promised.” Said the chief. He was squinting his eyes against the sun but he no longer believed in the speck he thought he could see on the horizon. “The people will be looking to me again for medicine.” Said the medicine man, “All I have to give them is what the Flatfaces taught me. My old ways would not work now, even if I still believed in them.” “You will remember what they taught you and you will teach another so that he may take your place and carry on the good medicine the Flatfaces brought to us. When they return they will be proud of how we have carried on their teachings.” The chief and the medicine man fell silent. Some of the islanders were gathering together, preparing to face their chief and learn what direction their lives would take now that their mentors were gone. They moved slowly down the beach, chattering in low voices in twos and threes, gathering together into larger groups, heading for the space below the dune-hill where the chief stood. The chief looked across the sand. So much of their island had changed. Whole areas of wood had been cleared. Strong sturdy shelters had been built in their place. Scrubby plantations had become regular organised fields, fertile from irrigation. All this time the beach had stayed the same. He knew the people needed a new purpose, a challenge and a celebration of all they had achieved. Most of all they needed to find a way to revere and praise the Flatfaces. Their legacy had to be fulfilled. The answer was there on the beach. They would build a monument, something time-consuming and dramatic. A huge stone head - a Flatface head, thirty feet high carved with the tools they had only recently learned to make for themselves. When the flatfaces returned they would be so proud and the people would have something to bind them together and keep them busy while they waited. The chief was sure he would never have dreamed of so grand an enterprise before the visitors had come and opened up his world. The people were ready, massed together below him, chattering amongst themselves, waiting for a signal. The medicine man raised his staff and shouted “People!” They fell silent and the chief began. The last of the islanders had gone to the beach to die. Under the shadow of the line of huge stone heads they sat. War no longer raged. There was no strength left to fight and no-one worth killing left alive. Every tree had been felled, every scrap of land turned to desert. the shelters which had not been burnt down in battle had been taken apart for firewood or to build desperate doomed rafts, setting sail at night with twice the load they could safely carry. Scarcely a single animal survived on the island. The medicine man and the chief sat with their backs against the tallest head. Carved from a single forty foot block of black stone, hauled from the other side of the island on sleds across rivers, gulleys and ravines. They called it “Wise-head” after the man they had dubbed the chief of the Flatheads although they could not really be said to have had a leader, he was just the one who had talked the most. “They’re not coming back are they?” Croaked the medicine man. “Bastards.” “If only we’d paid more attention to the stuff about crop rotation. I think I understand what they meant now.” Said the chief. Even in this dying time, the people clung to his command. He was still relatively healthy because he got first pick of the freshly dead. The medicine man’s pupil had been sustaining them both for some days but there were few edible remains left. “They’d never have gone for it.” Said the medicine man. “No-one’s going to leave a field empty when they’re hungry.” “No.” Said the chief, “I suppose not.” They looked out to sea. “We made some fucking beautiful statues though didn’t we?” “We did.” “You know what? Many years from now, when we’re all dead and our bones have rotted away, people are going to come to this island and wonder what the hell happened here.” The medicine man looked at the chief and the chief looked at the medicine man and they laughed, a dry hollow laugh that echoed across the barren island. 010621 ... sabbie i may have burnt my books but i still have what i learned 010621 ... sabbie i may have burnt my books but i still have my wisdom 010621 ... DannyH Spindly beasts, carving out a niche for themselves as cut-price carnival attractions. It didn’t require much prior knowledge of the attraction for the audience to see through their thin veneer of respectability. For all its claims of historical accuracy it was a skin show, plain and simple, just as it would have been in Ancient Greece. “The Dance of Nymphos” it was a big hit with Men and courting couples. Prostitutes plying their trade at the exit gates found it like fishing for salmon at spawning time. Some big fish had swum by. Mollie Rickburn, who pleasured strangers as Clarissa Rayborne, hooked a high court judge and netted herself a flat in Richmond, along with all the suspended sentences her suspenders could bring her. Someone even hinted that a member of the royal family had passed between the thighs of a certain whore, though the tart in question was known to be prone to exaggeration. Even so, it could not be denied that the dress she had been seen out in on Friday night last had looked French and had stopped at just the right point above the ankle to suggest a lover’s gift of the highest pedigree. For the length of the six week run, the slender figures danced to a music neither they nor the figures they portrayed could have understood. The band played blindfold, this was no gimmick, the musical guild of the town had insisted upon it, more for reasons of collective jealousy than of piety, and the players could be assured that had their blindfolds been seen to slip for a second, there would be no further employment for them in this town or any other in the county. The fact that most of the members of the musician’s guild had paid at least once to see the show made no difference to this ruling. Indeed, several members of the band had had to be replaced during the run as they had resigned in frustration at being so close to the dance without being able to ogle it. The blindfolds, whilst lending a dramatic edge of danger to the look of the orchestra pit, created a problem for the show. The musician’s guild held an absolute monopoly on musical entertainment in the county and membership was won by introduction rather than merit. As a result the only musicians available for public performance were the mediocre friends and friends of friends of the tone deaf Mr Jeffrey Ralphson (pronounced Ralson). It was a tall order to expect these amateurs to follow the score with their eyes wide open, let alone deprived of any form of visual aid. The resulting cacophany was surreal and terrifying, not so much a musical performance as a kind of mournful slaughter, as if the notes were being taken to the abbattoir and lined up to be killed one by one. Not that the audience complained. No-one would have been willing to come forward and besides, the unadulterated horror of the accompaniment served only to puncture the silkscreen of imagination and make the thin beings, whirling slowly before them, seem all the more real, all the less historical and all the more available. 020502 what's it to you? who go blather from